Är incel något man förtjänar att vara?
Anonym (Til) skrev 2023-08-04 06:50:46 följande:
Nina Rungs kritiserade bland annat att Stefan Krakowski inte ställt frågor kring varför männens besvikelse ibland mynnade ut i kvinnohat och våldtendenser. Och det är en berättigad fråga, som måste ställas. Kanske ville han inte ställa den för att inte trampa på ömma tår, vem vet.Men frågan kvarstår: varför börjar vissa av männen hata kvinnor och vill skada dem? Hur löser vi det? Dessa män kan ju inte få komma i närheten av kvinnor eftersom de är potentiellt farliga.
Hur kommer det sig att ensamma kvinnor inte skriver på forum att de vill skada män, eller att det inte finns en sån rörelse ens bland vanliga kvinnor trots våldtäkt, misshandel etc där män främst är förövare? Medan för vissa ensamma män räcker det med att de inte får till det med kvinnor för att hamna där? De behöver inte frukta för sina liv, de behöver inte vara rädda, kvinnor har inte gjort dem något ont mer än att inte välja just dem. Vilket även kvinnor upplever, utan att börja hata männen för det.
Man kan hata män ändå, det kan man som femininistisk politiker göra på twitter utan att riskera att bli kritiserad av nina rung och gör man som mytomanen linnea claeson blir man försvarad av nina rung.
"Hur kommer det sig att ensamma kvinnor inte skriver på forum att de vill skada män"
Sura incels pratar ofta om relationer men vill egentligen bara knulla och de vill gärna knulla någon de föraktar.
Jag tycker inte det är orimligt att anta kvinnor som grupp har med vissa undantag (som t.e.x narcissistiska feminister) lite svårare att se män som vandrande dildos och samtidigt uppskatta att sitta på den och de är mer relationsorienterade så de riktar det hellre mot andra kvinnor men det är lite dummare att tycka stacys roffat åt sej alla kukar.
Om det tar helt slut på män så vet man vad det inte beror på, det beror inte på att snygga stacys åker kukkarusel
I Was a Female Incel - Quillette
Nor am I attempting to draw an equivalence between modern feminism and incel subculture. I have no shortage of qualms about modern feminism, which is a sad bastardization of genuine female empowerment and, at its worst, outright misandry. The #MeToo movement is flawed, but it has exposed the crimes of some evil men, the victims of whom have mostly been female, as well as the people who facilitated their reprehensible conduct
[....]
By the time I was 15, I had isolated myself from the outside world almost completely, spending most of my days holed up in my room on my computer. As I interacted less and less with women in real life, the female gender disintegrated in my mind from a diverse group of individual human beings to a malevolent homogeneous mass that existed to taunt and threaten me. Femininity, in all its beauty and cruelty, existed outside of me. Was I transgender? No, that was not the case. I had transgender friends, and I couldn't relate to their situation at all. I wasn't a boy, nor was I genderqueer or anything else. I was a woman'an unbearably inadequate one.
During my time on the internet I was introduced to radical feminism. As I scrolled through blog after blog of ignorant, hateful misandrist drivel, I felt a righteous anger stirring inside me. Here were the same pretty, popular girls that used their social power to degrade me talking about how oppressed they were. They spoke proudly about degrading their bodies through cheap, meaningless sex. They bragged about destroying the sexual and social confidence of men and then called it 'empowerment.' They saw the entire world as a perpetual struggle between the female collective and an oppressive patriarchal system, and their purpose in life was smashing that system. They laughed off the idea that they, too, might be oppressive. I could have sought out the opinions of more moderate, rational feminists who believe in equality and denounced misandry and perpetual victimhood. Instead, I sought out the most extreme, hateful strands of feminism to feed my pathological view of women as oppressors and of feminism as their cruel doctrine of superiority. By religiously quoting Norman Mailer and styling myself as a strident ally of the Men's Rights Movement, I was able to rationalize my hatred as a tool in a noble struggle against an oppressive regime, rather than what it was-a manifestation of personal anguish over my own inability to cultivate my femininity. My Dylan Klebold-esque nihilistic scattershot angst had transmuted into a full-blown Eric Harris-like messiah complex. My pain no longer tormented me. Now it gave me power
With every voyeuristic POV porn gif and schizoid hipster tumblr blog, my perception of the feminine dissolved further into a Ballardian nightmare. There were no women, there was only Woman. And Woman was a dismembered, disembodied pastiche of swollen breasts and smooth legs, with red, hot, gaping mouths and ache-inducing curvature, a mysterious and malevolent scheme of tantalizing geometry. And running through it was a current of vicious deception and dark desire, seeping in the marrow of my bones like poison, haunting me with its pristine elusiveness. I raged against it, writing a story where I shot up my school, replete with violent sexual imagery like "slut after slut can't wait for me to blow [my gun] in her mouth." I had recurring rape fantasies, celebrating the unceremonious destruction of my own femininity. I wrote violent poetry that tore at the fabric of being itself
I don't write poems, I write death threats
In crippled syntax, in anger and blood and brittle words
Hydrogen bombs of emotional shit
Melt the smoking hot girls
She likes poetry, oh yes she does
She likes plastic poetry shoved down her little gaping throat
When I was 16 I fell in love for the first time, with a girl I met online. I wasn't particularly distressed to discover that I was gay, but the concept of falling in love terrified me. Being vulnerable to someone, especially a pretty girl, made me feel utterly powerless.
quillette.com/2018/07/18/i-was-a-female-incel/
Nor am I attempting to draw an equivalence between modern feminism and incel subculture. I have no shortage of qualms about modern feminism, which is a sad bastardization of genuine female empowerment and, at its worst, outright misandry. The #MeToo movement is flawed, but it has exposed the crimes of some evil men, the victims of whom have mostly been female, as well as the people who facilitated their reprehensible conduct
[....]
By the time I was 15, I had isolated myself from the outside world almost completely, spending most of my days holed up in my room on my computer. As I interacted less and less with women in real life, the female gender disintegrated in my mind from a diverse group of individual human beings to a malevolent homogeneous mass that existed to taunt and threaten me. Femininity, in all its beauty and cruelty, existed outside of me. Was I transgender? No, that was not the case. I had transgender friends, and I couldn't relate to their situation at all. I wasn't a boy, nor was I genderqueer or anything else. I was a woman'an unbearably inadequate one.
During my time on the internet I was introduced to radical feminism. As I scrolled through blog after blog of ignorant, hateful misandrist drivel, I felt a righteous anger stirring inside me. Here were the same pretty, popular girls that used their social power to degrade me talking about how oppressed they were. They spoke proudly about degrading their bodies through cheap, meaningless sex. They bragged about destroying the sexual and social confidence of men and then called it 'empowerment.' They saw the entire world as a perpetual struggle between the female collective and an oppressive patriarchal system, and their purpose in life was smashing that system. They laughed off the idea that they, too, might be oppressive. I could have sought out the opinions of more moderate, rational feminists who believe in equality and denounced misandry and perpetual victimhood. Instead, I sought out the most extreme, hateful strands of feminism to feed my pathological view of women as oppressors and of feminism as their cruel doctrine of superiority. By religiously quoting Norman Mailer and styling myself as a strident ally of the Men's Rights Movement, I was able to rationalize my hatred as a tool in a noble struggle against an oppressive regime, rather than what it was-a manifestation of personal anguish over my own inability to cultivate my femininity. My Dylan Klebold-esque nihilistic scattershot angst had transmuted into a full-blown Eric Harris-like messiah complex. My pain no longer tormented me. Now it gave me power
With every voyeuristic POV porn gif and schizoid hipster tumblr blog, my perception of the feminine dissolved further into a Ballardian nightmare. There were no women, there was only Woman. And Woman was a dismembered, disembodied pastiche of swollen breasts and smooth legs, with red, hot, gaping mouths and ache-inducing curvature, a mysterious and malevolent scheme of tantalizing geometry. And running through it was a current of vicious deception and dark desire, seeping in the marrow of my bones like poison, haunting me with its pristine elusiveness. I raged against it, writing a story where I shot up my school, replete with violent sexual imagery like "slut after slut can't wait for me to blow [my gun] in her mouth." I had recurring rape fantasies, celebrating the unceremonious destruction of my own femininity. I wrote violent poetry that tore at the fabric of being itself
I don't write poems, I write death threats
In crippled syntax, in anger and blood and brittle words
Hydrogen bombs of emotional shit
Melt the smoking hot girls
She likes poetry, oh yes she does
She likes plastic poetry shoved down her little gaping throat
When I was 16 I fell in love for the first time, with a girl I met online. I wasn't particularly distressed to discover that I was gay, but the concept of falling in love terrified me. Being vulnerable to someone, especially a pretty girl, made me feel utterly powerless.
quillette.com/2018/07/18/i-was-a-female-incel/